Lanes Eyes Only

Summary:
December 16, 2014: Deadshot lures Lois Lane into an impossible situation.

Undisclosed Location

REDACTED


Characters

NPCs

  • Myron>

Mood Music:
[*<http://insert.video.or.music.link.here>]


Anonymous tips are a reporter's bread and butter. Yes, they're unquotable sources, and they can't be used directly, but they almost always show the tip of an iceberg, or lead to something extraordinarily juicy. Juicy enough, at least, that the tipster doesn't want it traced back to them. Lois gets dozens a day alone, most of them little more than trashy political gossip or accusations ("Bruce Wayne is Batman" - sure, smoke another one, buddy).

This tip caught her eye in its simplicity: "The park near Jurgans Ave and Stein. Don't let yourself be seen. Wear gloves." it says.

Nothing more. Not even a hint of what it might be about. Probably not the sort of thing she should even bother with. And, if she did, she should definitely bring back-up. Or tell someone where she's going.

But she's not going to do that, is she?

Of course Lois was telling someone where she was.

"Clark, I'll be back. I'm going to the store."

Right.

She really was going, afterwards though. Peacoat on to fight the cold, along with a nice little fur-brimmed cap and a pair of gloves, and she was out the door sans purse (yet wallet, cause she was going to the store) in her pockets. It doesn't take long for her to head to the park, a whistle for the cab and a quick spin down three streets, a turn, long stretch and she was there. Stepping out of the car, she glances around and pulls the collar up upon her coat, pulling her infinity scarf up to make sure that her face remains obscured from the teeming masses.

Wanna know what else is cool? Transitional lenses. Lois wears glasses, but most wouldn't know that. And when she does? She gets tints to make sure that people think that she was wearing shades.

Cool…
The spot in the park itself doesn't seem like anything. Just another little spot with trees and bushes, kind of a meadow away from the bustling center with all the kids and joggers. Perfect for a midnight rendesvous, a tryst, anonymous cruising in the bushes, that sort of thing.

What Lois can find and see immediately, however, is a box. Metal and resembling a tackle box almost, but fully squarish.

When she opens it, inside are a series of high-resolution digital photographs, printouts. They show two men at night meeting in the park. One man's face is obscured, a scarf around his neck and a hat pulled down. In a second photo, though, his eyes seem to reflect red towards the camera. A trick of the light, surely, one of those things. The other man probably takes Lois a moment or two to recognize, but eventually it comes to her. He works at STAR Labs, one of the upper level suits. Not a great scientist, but a good administrator. Kind of dismissed by his genius compatriots, but, hey, someone's gotta do the books, right?

The red-eyed man hands over an envelope. He gets an envelope in return. The two shake hands and go their separate ways.

The last picture is a shot of the STAR Lab employee again. Same outfit. Tied to a chair. His leg is bleeding. There's a gag in his mouth. Hastily scrawled at the bottom is an address, an apartment in a still unopened development three streets away. Secure. Empty.

The box, opened. Pictures, looked at. The surrounding scene of the park studied as she goes through the pictures one by one. With a hang of her head, she pulled out her phone and turned it on.. but.. thought better of it. No. She wasn't going to call anyone. She was going to get the scoop herself after she rescues the …

No Lois. Call someone. Thinking like this is what gets you killed.

You aren't invincible. You're just now up and out after being shot..

I'm going to get the scoop no matter what.

She shoves the pictures into her peacoat, then takes the box to toss into the bushes. There was nothing left inside, right? So she didn't need it anyways.

With a turn from that little bench, she begins to jog, cold wind beating against her face, head occasionally down, three streets were nothing for someone like her.. but she makes it in ten minutes time with heavy breaths.
The door is unlocked when she finds it, opening easily. And it's not much different within than it had been pictured. Unfurnished, except for the single chair. The plump man with the round spectacles. His hairline's receding. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and his mouth. His face wet with what appears to be tears, mouth stretched around a dark cloth that's been stuffed in there and cinched tight.

And bloody. His leg bleeds, a hole torn around the knee, a visible wound there where he's been injures somehow. Perhaps stabbed or.

*SLAM*

Shot. Definitely shot.

"Myron, I think you know Miss Lane. She might not remember you, cause yer a fuckin' crawlin' piece o' shit, but I'll remind her. Myron Porter, vice president in charge of production, STAR Labs. You'd be surprised what kinda security clearance you can get bein' an officious little crawler."

Sometimes, Floyd betrays his upperclass upbringing. Most street thugs don't use words like 'officious'. "Nod hello to the pretty lady, Myron." Floyd Lawton's there in the corner, lighting a cigarette with his worn zippo while his other keeps a very, very large revolver trained towards Myron although, of course, it could be redirected with a flick of the wrist.

"Hiya, toots," he says with a wink.

The slam of the door causes a start, she jumped in place, turning to face Floyd, then towards the man, who appeared hurt. As introductions were made, the glasses were left on but everything else was taken off, the hat removed and tossed to the floor, the infinity scarf tugged down to hang around her neck, a scowl placed upon her face as she glances to and fro with a slight frown.

"Hi." She mutters warily, moving slowly to step in between the two, but wisely not directly in front of the gun that was aimed at the man. Her hands lift just a little, her poise cautious.

"Deadshot. What are you doing?" It was obvious, but she wanted to know /why/.

Floyd Lawton answers simply, "Oooh, Deadshot. Using codenames, so formal. I'm doing my job, Lois. Dweebie here, see, he's been peeking a little too deep into the company's more restricted zones lately. He's got the access, yeah, but it's not really his territory, and a couple of people noticed him poking his head around. Suspicions get raised. Suspicions get passed up the food chain. Folks at the top start wondering what fatso's poking around about, sniff him meeting up with someone, but they don't know who."

"Which is when they send me in to take some pictures. Problem is, honestly, I ain't never been good at this questioning stuff. Interrogations, waterboarding? Nah. I mean, I can torture him, but is it gonna make him talk? I dunno. It might be fun! But I thought, wait! Fl—Deadshot! See, see I almost messed up there! Deadshot, you know someone who asks questions for a living. Professional like. Even won some awards for it. Maybe she can ask the questions!"

"So, bing bang boom, I send you an e-mail, all mystery like, in you come scurrying your pretty ass in here all rosy cheeked and spunky. Nice shoes, by the way."

"Wouldn't do with having your name out there more than it already is." Lois states plainly. She knows the types, most of them. Codenames were their bread and butter and they wanted their lives private from their 'jobs'. Saving people, even hurting people. They all had a name that they went by and it was her way of familiarizing with them. Maybe, she could use that familiarity to get him to let the man go.

She turns back towards the man, obvious concern shown within her features as she slowly shakes her head.

"Thanks. But.. Deadshot. I really, really think we need to get this man to a hospital. He's hurt. You can get your questions later. You obviously know how to get into hospitals, right? And I'm sure you put the fear of god into this man. Do me this solid. Alright?"
Floyd Lawton laughs and shakes his head, "Lois, Lois, Lois," he says. And then he moves swiftly, closing the distance between them and gripping her by the hair. She can feel the barrel of the gun on the underside of her chin, pressing upwards into the soft meat above her throat. His blue eyes meet hers directly as he lays his forehead to hers, intimately.

"You seem to have misunderstood our relationship. Let me clarify. I am not your friend. I am not nice. I do not do people solids. If you want this piece of shit's miserable life, make me an offer."

He relaxes his grip on her hair, but still keeps his hand on the back of her neck so she can't quite pull away as he takes a step back, tapping the tip of the gun barrel against the bottom of her throat, "Gosh, I'm glad we cleared that up. I hate it when things are left unspoken. So, you don't want fat boy to bleed out. Noble, especially given that he probably just sold weapon secrets to terrorists who want to kill you and everyone you know. But hey, I admit, I never undertood the whole morality bag to begin with?"

He cocks his head, "What's he worth to you?"

The way he closed the distance was expert, she tracked back far enough to bump the poor man but was still caught within his clutch. The gun pressed to her chin was enough to draw her face a solid red, her eyes closing immediately as she tries to breathe through the threat of her life being ended right then and there with just a single moment of defense. But she couldn't help herself.

She reached up to grip his shirt, her hands immediately shaking, eyes placed upon his as fingers unclasp and grasp, hands remaining there possibly out of fear. And it showed within her eyes. Which was the only place where it ever went.

Once he moves away from her, her bottom lip trembles slightly, the grip upon her neck drawing her shoulders up as hands lift again out of habit. She had nothing in her hands.

"I.. I'll pay you double what they're paying you to keep him alive. And.. and we'll get the information that you need to top it off." Does Lois have that kind of money? Nope!

But she sure can lie under pressure and when lives depended on it.
[OOC] Floyd Lawton says, "Well, of course. But it's also a genuine reminder to Lois that he is a bad, bad person."
Floyd Lawton laughs and shakes his head, "Ah, that's a good try, I'll admit. I do have mercenary instincts. I've killed for money many a time, as I'm sure you found out with a little digging. Problem is, I'm kind of on retainer at the moment. I don't get paid as much in cash as I do in continued breathing and freedom."

He considers for a long moment, "But maybe…maybe you could do me a favor. You're good at digging, right? Dig deep, deep down, find out about things, people, that maybe nobody knows about? Aren't supposed to exist? Because I know a few of those…and I'd like to know more about them."

"I let him live. And, when I decide, I'll give you two names. And you find out everything you can about them and give it to me. And if you lie to me about what you've found…and Lois, do I even have to point out that I'll know if you're lying? Mostly because if I even suspect for a second that you are I will beat you bloody just on the possibility?"

"Two names. Might even be codenames. And you and Myron can call 911. I'd drop you off, but my El Camino's in the shop."

Inwardly, Lois was wincing. But she was grateful that he wouldn't take /that/ deal. She probably would have had to beg, borrow, cheat and steal just for the cash that he probably was paid with, and that wouldn't have looked good on the resume.

His words were considered for a moment, her gaze shifting towards Myron. She wasn't going to let that thick bastard off so easily. She was going to question the man. He owed it to her, obviously. He owed her a lot at this moment, because this would be the second deal she was making with the Devil.

"Alright. You got a deal.." She says quietly, swallowing hard enough to cause her body to shiver momentarily. Fingers soon curl into a fist and slowly drop, she didn't need a paper and pen for this.

"What are they? And where can I find you if I need to contact you."
Floyd Lawton considers, "I'm going to have to think about the second one. Some names you don't drop the dime on easily."

He walks to the door, as if considering, "Usual rules apply: I wasn't here. Anybody squeaks that I was is gonna find a bullethole in their tongue come the next day. And you should remember that I can put it there from a mile away."

He slides the gun into the back of his pants, "All I've got for the first is a codename. But whatever you can find, I'll take."

"Midnighter."

And he closes the door firmly in his wake.


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